


Reverie

by unpopularopinion_ihatecake



Series: Reverie [The Distortionist x Reader] [1]
Category: GHOST | GHOST and Pals (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cat, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Female Protagonist, Henry is your friend, Male-Female Friendship, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Mind Manipulation, Multiverse, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Sister Insert as well, Swearing, kind of, reposted from wattpad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpopularopinion_ihatecake/pseuds/unpopularopinion_ihatecake
Summary: "In my personal fantasy land, anything is possible, dear. The only downside is that things work differently. Not worse; just differently.""Yes? What is it?""...""It would be only right, dear. This place caters to my wants, and it would be incomplete without my biggest desire... having you with me.""Will you stay, dear? In this forever reverie?"Reposted from Wattpad.
Relationships: The Distortionist | Christopher Pierre/Reader
Series: Reverie [The Distortionist x Reader] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985789
Kudos: 6





	1. Author's Note

The character, Christopher Pierre, belongs to GHOST. There will be side characters owned by GHOST, as well.

As with the canon stories, I'll get a few things wrong. Especially with Henry's, Nancy's, and Kennith's stories (AKA Communications). Also, I'll fuck things up with a few deaths that didn't happen as in the canon stories. But, oh well.

The story is set between 1900 and 1930 (kind of modernized in the dialogue, though!). So, since [Y/N] will be female in this, because of norms of the time and all, she will wear dresses. However, there will be less misogyny, so women in the story will also have full-time jobs and such. The story is mostly in 2nd person narrator.

If you're using a computer to read this, there's a chrome extension called Interactive Fics. It replaces [Y/N] with your real name! If you want to, go try it out!

Just a reminder: as with all my stories, grammar corrections are very welcome!


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris gets himself into deep shit.

Tears laced with cyanide flow through the cracks of a

Mirror shattered long ago

\-----*-----

On a peaceful shopping district paved with cobblestone, the setting sun's rays painted the stores' outer walls in hues of gold and orange. There were all kinds of shops: convenience stores, food markets, restaurants, clothe making and mending shops, perfume shops... One could spend their whole salary there and still have something else they wanted to buy.

Rich men and women strolled the streets with their colorful, flowing dresses and sharp suits. Some had their wallets out, counting how much cash remained in their billfolds. Others were pleasantly chatting with people of the same wealth while bragging about their new jewelry or something of the sort.

However, this blissful moment was shattered by a scraping sound. A young man with hair so blonde it was white, sickly pale skin, and a cheap carny suit was trudging down the street, dragging a badly dented metal bat behind him. The shoppers edged away from him, fearing that he was drugged out. He wasn't, but with the effects he was experiencing... It was almost as if.

His fantasies were seeping into reality. He liked to be completely in reality or completely in his world, not both at once. On days like these, he couldn't tell apart what was real and what wasn't. It was like a dream - or a nightmare.

He glanced up at the sky. Such pretty colors... shocking pink and neon green, as well as hints of other colors imperceptible by any normal humans' mind. The colors were constantly in movement to form many different patterns, like a gargantuan kaleidoscope.

He heard laughter. A burst of high-pitched, demonic laughter. He spun around, and a shadow barely escaped his stare. He huffed and went back to walking down the neon-colored glass road.

The laughter again. Some whispers, gossiping about him. More giggling. He looked around and saw silhouettes fleeting his vision. Some were not even human-shaped; a boy with eight limbs was chuckling alongside a spindly old man. They were two of the only ones that were not afraid of the pale boy's gaze.

"I know it's your fault..." the young man grumbled. He stumbled over to a mirror, clutching his bat tightly. His reflection, a deplorable perception of himself, was grinning malevolently back at him.

His hands itched to move, and he lifted the metal bat an inch up off the ground.

"I have you now..." he laughed maniacally. "Stop distorting my reflection!"

Sharp shards flew at his face as metal met glass. Some got stuck in his cheeks, and his hands were now wet. The liquid was ever-changing colors; all colors that nobody in their right mind would see. The pale man brought his fingers up to his mouth and licked the liquid. It tasted salty. His first thought was tears; the tears of his reflection.

The shadows screamed shrilly. One of them yelled "Don't drink that!"

Why shouldn't I drink it? the man thought. Is it poisoned? It would be something the monster in the mirror would do; lace his tears with cyanide. He stepped over the broken mirror frame and into the mirror. Inside, there was a room with many shadows.

One silhouette was approaching the young man as if he were a wild beast. In its hand, it had a bright blue object; a pair of scissors.

"How dare you treat me like an animal!" he charged at the shadow, swinging his bat. The shadow dissipated, leaving only the unusually-colored scissors and a pool of those cyanide-laced tears.

The shadows shook, and wailing erupted throughout the air around the boy. He covered his ears and dropped the metal bat with a resounding crash. He jumped out of the mirror. Still, the sobs and wails continued loudly. All the silhouettes around him fled like oil would flee from water.

Two of the shadows approached him slowly with batons in their hands. Suddenly, fear coursed through the young man's body. He picked up a long shard of glass coated with the cyanide tears, something he could defend himself with.

He ran away from the baton shadows. The other silhouettes were running away from him, but the edges of his vision were black and cloudy, almost as if the shadows were eating him whole. The shadows prevented his passage. In a second he was on the ground, wheezing. The darkness consumed his being as he passed out.


	3. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You comfort your friend.

The truth projected through a lense

With nothing proving otherwise

\-----*-----

The bitter taste of coffee washed over your taste buds. You blinked, the caffeine numbing your underlying tiredness slightly more. You set the mug down on your desk with a little clink and continued writing on your typewriter., moving your hands with newly-found vigor. Inspiration gently kissed your thoughts, manifesting itself in the inked words.

A celebrity, commonly known as the Candle Queen, had just gone to Britain for a week to perform in the royal court. The plays she'd done had gone so well that it was article-worthy. And since articles don't just pop up out of nowhere, you were one of the journalists that were writing about it.

You were glad you had accepted to write this article when you did, even though celebrity gossip wasn't your specialty. Very recently, a murder in broad daylight had occurred. You'd never written anything about crimes, and jumping directly into the "murder" category would have been disastrous for the paper's reputation and your career.

The article went to Henry Elsner, who was both your co-worker and friend. He had written about crimes before, so it wouldn't be a problem for him. Still... You hadn't spoken to him in a couple of days. Perhaps you two needed to catch up sometime.

The creak of an opening door distracted you from your work and your offhand thoughts. Henry peered through the crack in the door, his dull greenish-gray eyes even more drained of life than normal.

Without waiting for your signal, he entered. Knocking was just a bare formality that was only there because you were working. Otherwise, he wouldn't hesitate to just enter.

"I should be working right now, but..." he trailed off. "[Y/N], I really apologize for interrupting you..."

"What is it, Henry?" you caught on quickly that something was wrong.

He fidgeted, looking anywhere that wasn't you. "The victim of this murder was..." You didn't hear the last part, he spoke it so low.

"Please, do tell," You got out of your chair and approached him.

"[Y/N], I can't write the murder article." It was normal for him to look a bit down, but right then it looked like he'd burst into tears at any provocation. "The victim was Nancy."

You didn't have to ask if he was kidding, because he'd never joke about this. Your hands went over your mouth in shock. Nancy was Henry's wife. While you and the other woman weren't as close as you and her husband, you still considered her a friend. To hear she was the victim of the murder...

Henry refrained from looking at you, which was wise. If he did, his grief would be too overwhelming.

You pulled him into a hug to comfort him, ignoring societal rules about touch. "Let's switch articles, Henry." The words tumbled out of your mouth. While you weren't usually that adventurous, this was a needed risk. He'd never manage to write an article about the murder of his own wife, nor would you ever subject him to that.

"You... Um, really?" He unwrapped your arms from him.

"Of course. You're my friend, and I want to help in any way I can." You gathered your progress on the Candle Queen. "Here, take my work."

"Thank you, [Y/N]. I mean it." Henry smiled awkwardly and took your papers. "I'm glad I can count on you. I just... need some time." He trudged out of your office, scuffing the wooden floor.

You should probably warn your boss about the switch. This boss, also the owner of the newspaper, was very open to ideas such as switching, but she wanted to be verbally informed about it all. Finding out basic information about the murder was also needed.

You headed off to confront this terrifying leap. You decided to think of it as an adventure.


	4. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trial.

Nobody's gonna blame me for that

Impossible, impossible

\-----*-----

Location: 5th Avenue, in front of Elsner's Sew Shoppe. Time: 18:21. Victim: Nancy Elsner. Murderer: Christopher Pierre. Motivation: ?

You closed your notebook, sighing at the big question mark dirtying the page. It was extremely annoying as a journalist to have information missing, but the blank would soon be filled. You were waiting for Christopher's judgment to commence.

It was still a while before the trial began, but you needed the extra time to prepare yourself to see the bastard who killed Nancy. You couldn't do anything else the whole morning anyway, since you were so anxious.

You'd already interviewed witnesses and nobody could tell you any more than you already knew. Only a few details were clarified; what happened before the murder and after.

As you were sitting on one of the audience's benches, trying to come up with questions for the lawyers and detectives, someone tugged on your sleeve. Over your shoulder, you saw a boy with curly black hair.

He looked about fourteen and was dressed very strangely; he had a blanket draped over his torso and a bandanna covering the lower half of his face. His eyes were disconcerting, but you couldn't tell exactly what put you off about them. Rationally, you could tell they were normal.

"Good morning, miss," the boy greeted with an unidentifiable accent. "Or, since it's only an hour 'till noon, should I say 'good day'?"

You chuckled at his question, still being a tad startled from his abrupt approach. You turned around completely to talk to him better. "Good day, then. My name is miss [L/N]. What should I call you?"

"Hmm..." He took one hand from under his blanket and scratched his covered chin. "Charon, I guess."

"Are you not from around here?" you asked. It would explain his weird attire, accent, and name.

"Not really," he shrugged. "I came from Greece."

You smiled. "Alright. Do you know where your parents are?"

"I wanted to talk to you." Charon tilted his head. "Did you want to know more about Christopher Pierre?"

"Yes, actually." You opened your journal once more and readied your pen. "Do you know anything?"

"A few things," he hummed. "Chris wasn't in the right state of mind when he committed the murder. Of course, no murderer is, but I don't think he realized he was killing a person."

"Oh? How do you know that?"

"I was there when it happened," the boy giggled. Immediately after, he brought his hand up to his bandanna. "Oh! I shouldn't have laughed. I'm sorry. But he was talking to his reflection in the sew shop's display window before he broke it and hopped in, and he was talking about shadows following him."

"Thank you. Do you have any other information?" you asked, scribbling on your notebook.

"A bit more... But you'll get to know all the rest in the trial. Good luck with your article!" He turned around and walked away. You could have sworn you saw three hands protruding the blanket's cover, but at the next glance, there were only two.

How did he know you were writing an article? He didn't even know your name at first. You did have your notes next to you, but teenagers weren't usually that observant. Then again, he did notice Christopher talking to his reflection before the murder happened. You couldn't be sure his information was trustworthy, but you would look into it.

For the next two hours, you were polishing your questions and observing the lawyers, judge, and jury enter the room. What really distracted you was when Christopher Pierre entered the scene. Everything about him seemed pale; his hair, his skin, even his suit and shoes were an off-white.

He turned toward the people in the audience. His wide eyes scanned everyone. They seemed to linger on you, but perhaps time just slowed down when you saw his eyes. His iris and pupil were swirled into one; they were black-and-white circles, falling endlessly like a hypnosis wheel. You could get lost in them.

You shook your head as soon as he turned his gaze away. What a freak.

Christopher seemed oddly tranquil as he outlooked the sea of people. You briefly wondered why, but the answer came to you quickly: he was mad like Charon said. You wrote "crazy?" in the motive section.

The photographer you had hired, Ellen, arrived at the courtroom. She was carrying all her heavy equipment. Her strawberry-blond hair was held up in pigtails that went past her waist, and she was wearing a black dress with a white blouse underneath. "Hi! Miss [L/N]!" she called, attracting your attention.

You had worked with her once before. It was for an article about croplands. Her photos of the Iowa farms were so beautiful and came at such a low price, it was just a matter of time until you worked with her again.

"Hello, Mrs. Tinea! Thank you for coming," you said.

"Sorry for arriving so close to the time of the trial," she apologized. "My friends wanted to talk about aidi- no, en-to-mo-lo-gy... Yeah, that was it, and I just got caught up and-"

"It's okay, you didn't miss anything. Come, sit next to me." You scooted to the side, your skirt getting a bit rumpled. Your move made the old man next to you grumble and grudgingly move a little too. Ellen plopped down next to you, clutching her equipment for it not to clatter onto the floor.

In a little while, the courtroom was bustling with people and the jury was settled. The trial was initiated.

Christopher defended himself well throughout the trial. It was strange. He had a way with words; he made even the most monotonous sentences sound fun and exciting and like something you'd fancy doing over the weekend. It still didn't help his case, either legally or in your eyes.

A motive was never given. He danced around answers, withholding any material from you. All in all, it was unproductive. It also set you back on your theory that it was just madness; he seemed very aware. More investigation would be needed, you supposed. The only good thing that would come of it was the photograph and interviews with detectives.

The judge gave him a life sentence. The trial had been ridiculously long for what it was; it took the whole day. According to your internal clock, it was almost dinnertime, and you didn't even have lunch. Everyone inside, including you, was eager to leave.

One girl in the audience who had hair and skin as white as Christopher's stood up, exclaimed a swear word, and left. She seemed like a relative, so you hoped to catch her before she left. First, you had to take a photograph for the article.

Cops were roughly carrying Christopher towards the exit. You and Ellen got up from your seats and walked up behind them. You cleared your throat, calling their attention to you.

"Good afternoon. My name is [Y/N] [L/N], from The Mara Press," you said, opening your briefcase and taking out the needed permits. "I'd like to take Mr. Pierre's photograph for an article about the murder."

"Sure thing," one of the two cops piped up after glancing at your piece of paper. "I'll have him ready in front of the courthouse, then. Do you have the necessary equipment?"

"Yes, I do. Mrs. Tinea is my photographer. Thank you, though."

You turn to Ellen. You'd offer to help, but it seemed like she was doing fine. Must have strong arms after doing this all the time, you guessed.

You led the way to the outside. You saw the convicted murderer being bullied by the pair of cops. One was holding him by the shoulders so he would not escape. Nobody around really noticed or cared, because Chris deserved anything that came towards him. He was despicable.

"Oh, hello, miss [L/N], Mrs. Tinea!" one greeted you, letting Christopher recover.

"Christopher here is ready to have his photograph taken, right?"

"That is correct. Do what you must."

Ellen set up her camera on its stand and put a pole with a metal clasp behind Chris. She put the iron clasp around his neck. Ellen got under a black blanket, positioning herself on the opposite end of the camera lens. Thankfully, the murderer didn't squirm as his photograph was being taken, which was a full eight minutes. Ellen shouted out the time every five seconds.

She eventually got out from under the tarp and said "It's done! I'll have it developed by next week."

"Thank you, Ellen," you sighed. "How much do you want for your job?"

After you paid half for Ellen's work, she remembered Pierre. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir!" She unclasped the clasp. "Thank you for being patient." How typical of her. She was polite to anyone, no matter who. She collected her equipment and went to her car, where her driver was patiently waiting.

You couldn't leave just yet, no matter how much your stomach was begging for a meal. You still needed to conduct interviews with a few people, since no opportunity would present itself like this again.


	5. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some interviews.

Now take the time to realize

Despite what you believe

\-----*-----

The person you should interview first was the girl with the white hair from the audience. Her demeanor showed she was very eager to leave. You needed to speak to her before she did so. Detectives would stay on the premises until later, so you had time for them.

People were milling out of the one-story building, chatting amongst themselves. Only people somehow connected to the criminal, victim, or the press had been allowed to attend since there were so many people who wanted to come. You spotted the albino woman on the other side of the street from you, so you weaved through all the attendees of the trial. You were careful not to accidentally hit anyone with your heavy briefcase.

You got to her side. Out of courtesy, you didn't immediately sit down next to her. She had her face covered with her hands and hair. It looked like she had it rough. You decided to act in the same sensitive way you did with Henry.

"Um... Hello. My name is [Y/N] [L/N]," you introduced yourself, making her drop her hands and stare up at you with wet eyes.

"What do you want?" Her purposefully spiteful tone was shattered with a voice crack.

"I'm writing an article about the murder." You tried to keep a soothing voice since your words couldn't be. "Would you be okay with disclosing information through an interview?"

"Ugh, you journalists are so insensitive." She frowned. "Writing an article about something my brother did and then daring to ask me about it."

"So he's your brother?" you confirmed, opening your notebook and inking it with quick words. Seeing her expression, you quickly added, "I'm so sorry, but this is needed. You do understand, correct?"

"Yeah," she grudgingly huffed. "I'm Izabella Pierre."

You wrote more onto your notebook, taking the liberty to sit next to Izabella. "So, do you want to start, miss Pierre?"

"Please, call me Bella." She winced. "Miss Pierre is weird. My brother calls himself by his last name, and it sounds like I'm his daughter or something."

"Sure," you chuckled. To make her feel better about you in general, you said "Call me [N/N] (nickname), then."

You leaned against the backrest, twirling your fountain pen and capping and uncapping it multiple times.

"I... Don't know where to start." Bella admitted. "Aren't you supposed to ask questions or something?"

"If you want me to. To start it off: what is your relationship with your brother?"

"We aren't super close, as some siblings are." She shrugged. "We speak regularly, though. He works at a traveling circus with me, or, well... Used to." Christopher working at the circus meant that he could not be crazy and just be good with entertainment and words. It would better explain what happened at trial than the 'crazy' label. But then what was his motive?

"We have a few friends there, so it isn't all bad," she finished.

"What are those friends?"

"I'd say Nah, a clown, and... Albert, part of the freakshow... Yeah, they're the only ones."

"What were your positions at the circus?"

"You mean my brother's and mine?"

"Yes."

"He cleaned mirrors in the funhouse, and I'm used as a stunt dummy for weightlifters and such."

"For how long have you been with the circus?"

"Since we were... Five, I think. That's eighteen years." They were still young. You were almost thirty, while the twins were twenty-three. You couldn't imagine being burdened with death at that age. Or any age. "We ran away from home and have been traveling with the circus ever since."

"May I ask why you ran away from home?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "Sorry, that's too personal. But our parents weren't the best if that helps at all."

"Mhmm... Okay, have you ever noticed anything... off with Mr. Pierre?" You needed to know if 'crazy' was ever going to be a valid motive.

"Kind of," Bella agreed. "Sometimes, he zones out so much that not even a bucket of freezing-cold water on his head can bring him back. He eventually snaps out of it. The carnies and I have learned to just ignore him when he's like that, but it's definitely weird."

And definitely interesting, you thought. "Anything else?"

"Nothing else weird, I think. Other than normal weirdness, I mean."

"Thank you for your time, Bella. I hope to see you around."

"I do too, [N/N]." she smiled. She was a lot more pleasant than when you first talked to her. "Good luck with your article... Or should I say break a leg?"

"Ehh... I don't think 'break a leg' means anything other than the literal sense outside of the theater."

"Oh, sorry, hah hah! Good luck, and don't break a leg!" On that nice note, she got up and walked away.

You gathered your supplies and stuffed them into your overloaded briefcase. You closed the clasps, tracing your fingers on the strained edges of the leather cover before hoisting it up and off of the bench.

It was necessary to confirm that Charon had been at the scene of the crime. What if he had just lied about being there in the first place? As time ran by, it seemed more and more likely... But, what other connection to the crime could Charon have had to be let in?

To make sure he was telling the truth, you could ask confirmed witnesses. Some people were still leaving, and quite a few matched your requirements as you had confirmed many before the trial.

You asked them if they had seen a fourteen-year-old boy with curly black hair, perhaps dressed strangely. Nobody could say they did, but there was an exception to this. It was that one man stated that he was passing a display window and saw someone like that in the reflection, but with a weird face and torso instead of strange clothing. When he looked into the street nobody was there. He looked back to the window, and the reflection of the boy was gone.

It wasn't exactly seeing him, but you thought it counted toward something, so you took note of it. It was entering the conspiracy spectrum, though. This could be a coincidence, however unlikely. You didn't work with that, relying only on solid facts. If there was nothing more to back up the teen, you'd discredit him.

You re-entered the courthouse. Instead of entering the place where the judgment was held, you turned into the hallway of many doors. A couple of guards were standing post in front of the rest of the hallway since the general public wasn't allowed in.

Luckily, you got all the permits you needed ahead of time. Once you showed them a few documents, they let you in easily. They also directed you toward the main detective of the case, which was in Office 1.

Every door had a bronze plaque with neat, carved letters describing what the room's use was. The first room was labeled 'Office 1'. You knocked on the door. A 'Come in' came from the other side, so you stepped in.

There was one woman standing up. She had striking red eyes. Presumably, she was the one who called you in, since the other person in the room was sorting papers, oblivious to your entrance.

"Good evening." The standing woman's voice was as mature as she looked. "My name is Stia. I'm the murderer's attorney." She pulled out her badge. "Is there anything you needed?"

"Ah, well, I'm with the Mara Press. [Y/N] [L/N]." You showed her your credentials as well. "I'd like to speak to the detective if they're in here...?"

"That would be her." she motioned with her thumb to the lady behind her.

You thanked Stia and walked over to the blonde. The first woman leaned against the door frame. The detective noticed you coming closer and perked up "Hello, Stia told me you were the main detective for the case. Is that correct?"

"Yep!" She smiled lightheartedly, contrasting with your mood of forced indifference. "My name is Nero Langilea. May I ask who you are?"

You introduced yourself as you did with the red-eyed lady. "I wanted to get a short interview with you for the article on Nancy Elsner's murder."

"Oh, I was waiting for someone like you to show up! Sit down, sit down!" She pointed at the chair facing her desk. You sat and quickly skimmed through your notebook. There were so many filler questions, but all you really needed to know was the motive. Could she give you that?

"For the first question: do you know how many people witnessed Nancy's murder?" you inquired.

"Perhaps around fifty that were near enough to witness it out on the street, and ten more inside the sew shoppe. Around sixty in all."

"What do you think was Christopher's motive?" You decided to just get to it.

"My guess would have been that he was high, but the drug test came back negative," she said, becoming more serious than she had been when you entered. "Our psychiatrists also say he's pretty sound."

"So... not crazy." You scribbled out most of the pages containing your theory. Most journalists would settle with 'No motive known,' but you were stubborn. You wanted a perfect article, so you thought of another way. "Thank you for your time, miss Langilea."

"Have a good day! Bye-bye!" she called out as you left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every character that has a name is an OC of GHOST (except [Y/N] and one future character in the story). All the names I invent have a physical or symbolic meaning in another language, so you guys that are interested in easter eggs can research all the meanings! :D Or you can, y'know, just ask... I can't keep it a mystery tbh


	6. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to get a great article.

You're making a wreck of broken glass

And leaving me a fuckin' mess

\-----*-----

The car you'd rented growled as it drove off. You waved as it went down the street and around a corner, its black sheen shadowed by the shade of tree groves. You spun around halfway to face the building you wanted to go to.

Foreboding was seeping out of the jail's fogged windows. Its rusty red walls made it look meaner than it would otherwise. The general atmosphere of the peaceful street was ruined by the frankly haunted-looking building.

You inhaled in preparation to face whatever was inside. You'd never been inside the jail; you never had any reason to. It was part of the mysterious unknown up until now.

With broad steps, you walked up to the door and turned the knob. On the other side, you discovered a normal lobby. The downtrodden version of a lobby in your mind dissipated like steam in sight of reality.

One thing did surprise you, though. Stia was sitting on the loveseat inside the lobby. Was she here for the same reason you were?

"How may I help you?" the secretary leaned over her desk to look at you, who was still in the doorway, better.

"I'm [Y/N] [L/N], a reporter from The Mara Press," you said, taking your credentials out of your briefcase. "I was wondering if I could get an interview with Christopher Pierre, the newly-convicted murderer?"

"The other lady asked the same thing." The secretary sighed. "Unfortunately, that's not something to arrange with me, ma'am. You have to talk with my boss, Ad-"

The back door burst open, and in came a person wearing a jacket the same color as the jail's paint job. You couldn't tell what gender they were on sight, and you were afraid to misgender them.

"Hello, Rue!" they greeted the secretary, who sat up a little straighter. "Who are these?"

"Stateira Gehenna, a lawyer, and [Y/N] [L/N], a reporter," she said in a tired tone. "They want to talk to Mr. Pierre."

"Ah, now that won't do." They shook their head. "But I may as well introduce myself. Greetings, my name is Adres Suzeraine. It's nice to meet the two of you, but Chris is getting situated in his cell. He won't be available until tomorrow for questioning."

"I don't see any reason to wait that long," Stia commented from the couch, radiating her unique aura of strictness. She was frowning as if she were deeply perturbed. "Each of us would take half an hour, at most. We'd stop bothering you. You wouldn't have to see any more of us, and we'd have what we want quicker. It wouldn't mess up any schedule."

"Oh, but why would I want to get rid of the two of you so soon after we've met?" Adres chuckled. "No, no... I insist! Come tomorrow, and you'll be able to interview Chris."

"Mr. Suzeraine," Stia seethed, getting more frustrated by the moment. "As his lawyer, I have the right to talk to him. [Y/N] probably has paperwork as well. You still haven't given us a valid reason to postpone the interview."

"Right? Paperwork?" Adres laughed. "Those were only valid in the courthouse. Since this is the jail and not the courthouse, you need my permission. Something that I do not grant... until tomorrow!"

You've had your fair share of uncooperative people during your career, and the best way to beat them was to let them have it their way. You'd think Stia's career would not be much different than yours in this way, but apparently not. Her cheeks were getting ruddy in annoyance and her lower eyelid was twitching.

"Stia..." you said quietly. "Perhaps we should go."

"I'm not leaving until he lets us in," Stia hissed.

Their lips formed a thin line at being called a 'he', but they quickly recovered. "You'll be waiting until tomorrow," Adres replied coolly, examining their fingernails. "Rue, go get me some coffee, will you?" The secretary hurried out through the back door, not wanting to witness her boss's argument with a lawyer.

Adres glared dangerously at Stia, now that Rue was gone. "Stia-"

"Miss Gehenna for you." she corrected them, glaring just as cruelly. She had a ring on the designated finger, so that must mean she was a widow.

"Ah. Miss Gehenna." They performed a small mock bow. "Fine, then. But this is my jail, with my rules. You either come back tomorrow... or you don't come back at all."

Stia was about to retort, but you stopped her. "Stia, please... I need this interview. To lose this chance would be really bad." you said.

The woman bit her lip. "Fine!" she barked. "I don't care, anyway." She turned to scowl at Adres. "We'll come back tomorrow."

"That's lovely." They grinned smugly. "See you then."

Once outside the jail's lobby, which now emitted the same aura as the front of the building, you got in front of Stia, preventing her passage.

"May I ask why you were there?" you questioned.

"It doesn't concern you." Her voice was frosty. "May I ask why you were there? It's my right to know since I'm 'taking care' of him."

"Well..." You exhaled in face of your failure of acquisition of knowledge. "I still don't have a motive for the murder. I'd like to ask him directly."

"That's what I thought it was." Her voice softened as she averted her gaze. "I don't have anything clear either. I wanted to speak to him to figure out if my assumption was true."

"What's your assumption?"

"If it's correct, you'll be the first one I'll tell. Come to the jail at ten tomorrow."

That was the last thing she told you that day. She turned away, shadows cast by tall trees dappling her figure. No goodbyes were exchanged as she walked along the sidewalk, in her own world secluded from all others.


	7. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your sister gives you an idea and you meet the troublemaker.

Surely you can see the problem

I don't wanna lose my own reflection

\-----*-----

What you saw was all blurry, and you couldn't make out your surroundings. You could see bright colors: swirls of cyan, lime, and colors you had somehow never seen before.

After you rubbed your eyes, and your sight minimally cleared up. You could see 5th Avenue, but differently. Some of the buildings were upside down, and all the walls were colored with eye-numbing shades of yellow. Windows were only reflective and did not display the inside of the shops. The road was paved with tinted glass.

You heard breathing. It was soft, inhales and exhales that would be inaudible if you weren't in this world. You spun, looking for its source, but nobody was there. You were suddenly hyper-aware of the rise and fall of your own chest, which was originating the strange sound. You put a hand over where your lungs would be, trying to calm the noise. After that failed, you held your breath. It seemed to be the only thing that worked.

"Isn't it nice to take a break from your black-and-white world of paper and ink?" a voice sounded, only being audible once your breathing was quieted. It startled you so much that you gasped, a glass-shattering sound in this place. You held your breath again.

Looking around you once more, your eyes almost skipped over a figure, standing in the middle of the road. They were in a strange monochrome dress. They seemed familiar, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

The two of you stared at each other quietly, and you eventually forgot to hold your breath. Funnily enough, it wasn't as loud.

"Who are you?" You shattered the strange silence.

"I'm [Y/N]," they said. "[Y/N], [Y/N], [Y/N], [Y/N]-"

\-----*-----

"[Y/N], [Y/N], [Y/N], [Y/N]!"

Your eyes shot open, and you found yourself on your bed. Beside you, Esther, your niece, was shaking you awake. She stopped once she saw your open eyes. "Auntie, you were wiggling a lot in your sleep," she commented. "Mama said to wake you up. Breakfast is almost ready."

Rubbing your eyes, you urged yourself to wake up completely. Esther had already left the room. Your older sister and her child lived with you, since [S/N] had a child as a bachelorette and was deemed indecent by society. She'd taken to doing chores like preparing breakfast, so the arrangement benefited both of you.

After getting changed, you left your room and went down the staircase. On the way to the dining room, you revisited your wild dream. Was that person you? Why did they look so different? You shook your head. It was only a dream that incorporated real-life noises into it. You shouldn't look into it so deeply.

The wooden floor creaked as you entered the dining room. [S/N] was putting three plates of buttered toast covered in fig preserves onto the table. Esther was sitting down, eagerly awaiting her food. Your sister smiled upon seeing you.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," she teased.

"Morning." You yawned. You took your place at the head of the table. Breakfast looked delicious and your stomach growled at the warm smell of butter mixed with canned fruit.

Your plate was crumbless and your mug was empty before you realized it. Your niece sucked her fingers, enjoying the lingering sweetness of the fig sauce. [S/N] was still calmly eating her toast, not minding that her daughter and sister had finished in such a rudely short amount of time.

"Esther, you are excused. [Y/N], may I speak to you?" [S/N] said.

"Oh, sure." You looked directly at [S/N] as Esther left the table, waiting for her to speak.

"About the murder..." she started. "You've known Henry for a long time. Maybe we should comfort him, you know? Invite him for dinner, maybe?"

"That's a great idea!" you exclaimed. "Why haven't I thought of that?"

"You're overwhelmed as well. It's your first murder article, after all," she said reasonably.

You glanced over at the wall clock. "And I've got to run! I'll pass him the offer, don't worry!" You got up quickly and sprinted out the door. It was nine in the morning, and since it took an hour to get to the jail, it was time to go.

\-----*-----

You entered the jail again, where Adres and Stia were already having a heated argument. You stepped in between them. "Okay, what is it this time?" you sighed.

"Adres said we have to wait until evening!" Stia hissed. "He specifically said-"

"I said 'Come back tomorrow'," they scowled. "I didn't say which time of day."

"Listen, fucker, I'm a lawyer," Stia snapped. "If you don't let us interview Christopher Pierre right now, I swear to our creator that I will get you fired and have your miserable ass ruined-"

"Now, that's a bit too much, don't you think?" Adres smirked in a teasing way, clasping onto a certain part of Stia's threat. "I'm sorry, love, I don't want to get intimate with you. Don't go out of here crying, darling, there's tons of fish in the sea."

"YOU KNOW DAMN WELL THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" Stia yelled, red in the face. You wondered if it was embarrassment or rage. Probably a mix of both.

"But that's what I understood." Adres grinned.

"All right, break it up, break it up!" you yelled on top of the uproar the lawyer was causing.

By some miracle, they both stopped arguing and looked at you. You felt small under their scrutinizing stares.

"U-Uh..." you stuttered. "How 'bout we reach a compromise?"

"And what do you suggest?" Stia's voice was steely.

"Maybe... We go in now," you started, earning a glare from Adres. "But... Adres gets to veto certain questions we ask?"

Adres was nodding, but Stia shook her head vigorously. "No. I'm not agreeing to that," she growled.

"Fine," Adres rolled their eyes dramatically. "I'll let you go in now and choose your questions..." they paused, ideas flickering behind their eyes. "But only one of you goes in."

"At a time?" you tried.

"No. At all." They crossed their arms. "It's that or nothing."

Stia was glaring at them, but eventually said, "I'll discuss the questions with [Y/N], then she'll go in."

"I'll be back in a couple of minutes," they said, leaving the room through the back door.

You took out your notebook to write down questions Stia had. However, Stia only asked if she could look through the pages of your notebook, so you agreed. She flipped over a few dozen pages, her gaze moving rapidly to get a general idea of the information contained between the sheets of white and black. After a minute or so, she handed back the leather-bound journal. "You know how to get the right answers," she commented. "That's all I'll need, anyway."

"That's great!" You smiled.

"How long have you been a journalist?" she asked.

"Ever since I finished college. That was... maybe four, five years ago? How long have you been a lawyer?" you inquired.

"Oh, a long, long time." she smiled gently.

Adres reopened the back door. "Miss [L/N]," he gestured to the inside of the back room. You got up from the couch and waved a little goodbye to Stia.

Inside the back room, there was a spiral staircase leading both up and down. Adres started descending the stairs, so you did too. The rusty metal steps whined under you as you went down the stairwell. The lower you went, the dimmer the electric lamps got. It came to a point in which you had to drag your hand across the stone wall to not skip a step. Fortunately, you didn't have to go down too much into the underground. You and Adres reached the bottom floor, which was significantly more well-lit than the stairs leading down to it.

"This way!" they said, going down what appeared to be the main hallway. There were some larger cells in this hall, and one occasionally held a prisoner. A few jailers sat at desks, playing card games with each other. They looked at you oddly, as if they didn't expect you to be there.

After a couple of twists and turns, Adres whistled and removed a ring of keys from their pocket. They picked out a key from the bunch and started unlocking the cell to their right. You peered over their shoulder. The cell held the one person causing the most trouble lately: Christopher Pierre. He was sitting at a wooden table, set up with two chairs on either side. The side closest to the exit of the cell was free, and you had a pretty good guess of who would occupy that seat.

The clack of the barred door opening made you look at Adres. They smiled deceitfully at you. "Go in, he won't bite." They gave Chris a pointed look. Christopher glared right back. "In any case, I'll be watching the interview." Adres waved their hand. "If anything goes wrong, I'll be right here to help you, miss [L/N]." You suspected that wasn't the only reason they were watching, but you walked into the cell anyway.

And there you were. Sitting in front of the man that murdered Nancy Elsner, about to ask him questions about the event. The hypnosis wheels in place of his eyes were spinning, attempting to capture you within a trance. You opened your notebook and readied your pen as if they were your shield and weapon. Your article would be complete, no matter how hard that was to achieve.


	8. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another world is opened to you.

A monster, monster, monster, monster

Now run away, run away, run away

\-----*-----

"Morning, Mr. Pierre." You twirled your fountain pen between your index and middle finger as you were speaking.

"Good morning, miss [L/N]." He smiled disconcertingly.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions and be done with the interview. This won't waste much of your time," you assured.

"As if I have time to waste," he scoffed. Adres glared at him through the cell bars, and Chris stopped smiling so widely. It still seemed like he was forcing down a big grin, though.

You asked a few unimportant questions first for him to open up. He answered each one objectively, taking a large weight off your back. The only downside was that creepy smile that seemed to be plastered to his face.

You breathed deeply. It was time. You’d find out what the motive was, for better or for worse. “Mr. Pierre, why did you kill Nancy Elsner?”

Chris only tilted his head and continued smiling creepily, his eyes consuming you. This was unlike his cooperativeness. Suddenly and without warning, his hands shot out and gripped yours. You didn't even have time to gasp or jerk away before your vision became flooded by incomprehensible colors.

\-----*-----

Once you awoke from the unfurling daze, you found yourself in the same chair you’d been interviewing Chris on, in the same cell. However, reality was filtered into a boisterous version of itself, like in your dream. You weren’t sleeping this time. You rubbed your eyes, looking at where Chris would be. The chair was devoid of him. You looked outside of the twisted bars, where Adres would be. The space was also empty.

Normally, this situation would trigger an intense reaction from you. For whatever reason, though, you couldn’t make yourself feel anything other than a slight surprise. Even though the world was so colorful and full of personality, inside you felt dull, monochrome. You looked down at yourself. Your clothes and skin were black and white, just like what you were feeling.

Your vision flitted to the corners of the cell. A figure darkened until it was unrecognizable leaned on one of the corners, staring at you.

You were about to think it was the same person from the dream, the other you, but the silhouette gave way to reveal Christopher. He wasn’t displayed in strange colors; he, too, was monochrome.

“Mr. Pierre…?” you tried. “Where is this?”

He stopped staring at you so intently, seemingly snapped out of a daze as well. “We’re in a parallel world,” he explained simply. His voice was quieter and less dramatic than in your reality, almost making it eerier.

You awaited the waves of shock to wash over you, but you were left numbed once more. This was starting to get strange. “How? And… why aren’t I having much of a reaction?”

“It’s complicated,” he granted. “It’s something I’ve been able to do for a while. We get transported to a place where time doesn’t run out, where our acts are inconsequential and where others can’t eavesdrop. I won’t explain much now. This is just to tell you what my motive was.”

"What was it, then?” you asked. You wished your pen and paper had been transported to wherever this was with you.

“Occasionally, I get stuck in this world. What I do here starts to affect the other world. If it’s for too long, I go mad. Nancy’s murder was accidental.”

“Okay, hold on,” you said. “Can you expand on that, please?”

"Of course. Everything that you see and hear here is another plane of existence. However, the two worlds usually don’t cross. When they do, it affects everyone involved, mentally and physically. I swung my bat at a shadow, from my perspective."

"I dreamed about this world," you commented, distracted by the mesmerizing patterns on the walls.

"I saw you here." He nodded.

"Did you see anybody else?”

“No. You were alone.”

Something specific caught your attention. You squinted and walked over to him. He backed away a little from you, even phasing through the wall behind him slightly. Something you hadn't noticed was that, on the apple of each cheek, there was a small ball of black that seemed to be colored in with a fountain pen. They didn't exist back in your world.

"Huh.” You walked back to the interviewing table, sitting down in your chair. "How did you first access this world?"

"That's something I don't have much of an answer to." Chris shrugged, always looking at you. "There was a day like many others in which I wanted a different life. In my dreams, I came to this place. It was exactly like our world back then, but as I stayed longer, it changed to what it is today."

“So your motive is that you were stuck in an alternate reality… Unfortunately, it’s not material for an article.” Your normal feelings trickled back into you, and you felt mildly repulsed by him. This wasn’t something you could wrap your head around, and you didn’t want to be the middle man in managing the two worlds.

“I’m afraid not. But… Do you know why I called you here?” He stepped closer by mere inches.

“Why?”

“Because I still have unfinished business in the other world.” His gaze darkened a notch. “I want to ask you a favor, to investigate my sister.”

“And why should I? You killed Nancy, after all.” You felt as disgusted as you were capable of right then. He had no rights, although he supposedly committed the murder unconsciously.

“It will be good article material. You can even talk about this world.” He smiled for the first time in this parallel reality. It was the same eerie smile as before, if not bigger.

You begrudgingly nodded. If you could explain alternate realities in an article, you’d be considered one of the best journalists in history. Not to mention, you were plain curious, as well.

"I wanted to give you a word of warning about Adres. They want to wreak discord just for the thrill of it. Be wary of them.”

“Noted. What else?”

“The reason I’m asking for you to investigate my sister is that she needs to face her sins. She’s done things way worse than me. It’s best if you find out on your own since you’ll have proof that way as well. You’ve met her, correct?”

“I have. I’ll investigate her. If we have nothing else to do here, don't you think we should go back? I'd like to start writing my article and to speak with my family."

"Your family? Are you married?” he asked, quite curious. “I didn't see your wedding ring..."

"Eh? Oh no no no, not married." You chuckled nervously. Sometimes, older men and women would ask why you weren't married yet since you were 'a woman in her prime years' and then ask why you were wasting your young adulthood. It was all awkward conversation from there. "I have my sister and her daughter. I take care of them."

"Hm. It shouldn’t impede you from coming to visit me often. I need to communicate more with you. While I'm under Adres's supervision, that'll be difficult, but I'll be moved to prison soon. I think they'll let you see me; then, we can come here again."

"Sure," you said, half-hesitant. “There’s just one more thing I don’t understand. Why me?”

“You are my last chance. Once I’m in prison and have no one on the outside, I’m done for.”

The weight of those words set in. He was expecting you to carry the burden of his purpose. While you didn’t comprehend him, he still had a right to have hope.

"And remember, when you go back to our reality, I've apparently just grabbed your arms with no explanation. You need to pull away and act mad at me. After that, I’ll just tell you I had no motive. Correct?”

You nodded and closed your eyes. Gradually, the colors drained out of your vision. It was like what you had been seeing became a liquid and it spilled out of your eyes, leaving you blind. The void-like whiteness faded into a boring wooden table and stone cell walls. You felt Chris's slender hands on yours, and from then on you followed his instructions. It wasn't that difficult, as the rest of the interview went on with no obstacles.


End file.
